


Paint on our hands

by Greek_Hero



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Art, F/M, History, M/M, Modeling, No magick, PTSD, World War I, fluff?, idk...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-01-25 16:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greek_Hero/pseuds/Greek_Hero
Summary: Set in the roaring 20s, Simon Snow Salisbury is a young, big time painter. He is engaged to the beautiful Agatha Wellbelove and pretty okay with everything. But then he meets the mysterious Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Simon asks him to pose for a painting and that sparks a love that might be too intense for both of them to handle, that might end in flames. But that could also be their saving.





	1. The Question

**Author's Note:**

> I promise there's only a few chapters of Agatha and then I'll delete that entire relationship from existence...
> 
> And for the story, I like history, I like Carry On. Perfect combination.

##### Simon

My footsteps sound hollow as they echo back from the houses on either sides of the street. The lanterns spread an eerie light that hardly penetrates the dark and droopy night. It's nights like these when I wish that I had just emigrated to India when I had the chance.

Next to the gloomy weather is the fact that I am late, so Agatha will have my head. And if it 's not for Agatha, then it will be my dear friend Penelope, who hosts the particular party that I am currently very late for.

Maybe they'll have scones.

I cut a corner, evade a car speeding past me and finally reach the Bunce’s huge stone mansion. Light and music is coming though the windows, as well as the occasional burst of laughter.

Taking the steps two at the time I then proceed to slam the bras knocker into the soft wood of the door.

Once. Twice.

The door rips open before I can do it a third time.

Illuminated from the back stands Penelope. Her short bob, shiny from the hairspray and gel, reflects the candles behind her, making her look like a saint. She's wearing a purple sequence dress that just reaches her calves and an peacock-feather is mysteriously glued to her head.

‚Simon!’ her face lights up, ‚I was half expecting that you wouldn’t be making an appearance!’

‚That would have been unthinkable.’ I simply reply as she pulls me inside and in a bear-hug.

The foyer and living room are filled with people, all laughing and talking as a live band plays in a corner. Penelope has really outdone herself; the chandeliers shine bright, some waiters hustle past the many bodies carrying huge trays of champagne-flutes.

‚Is Agatha around?’ I ask, taking one and trying to appear as casual as possible.

‚Hmm…’ she seems distracted, probably searching for someone, ‚Yes, I do think I saw her a while ago. She didn’t seem very pleased that her fiancé wasn’t present yet.’ she shoots me a pointed look, which I ignore.

‚Oh! Lily! Darling!’ Penny turns to me, giving an apologetic look, ‚It looks like I’ll be leaving you now. You know the way. Don’t get yourself killed.’

I smile and wave her away as she hurries to catch up with Lily.

I recognize most of the faces. A lot of people from the medical field, some engineers and a couple, like me, from the artistic field. I greet some, and am making quite succesful small-talk with an older man, when I feel a soft hand on my elbow.

‚There you are darling. I have been looking for you all evening!’

Agatha has appeared next to me, just as stunning as usual; long blond hair pinned up, a simple white dress and a healthy blush covering her usual pale cheeks.

‚I’m sorry’ I say, bending down to kiss her cheek, ‚I got caught up in my work again.’

Agatha giggles and slaps my arm as if to warn me to never do something like that again. Her giggle seems forced

‚You are not going to introduce me to your friend?’ she then asks, like nothing is wrong.

‚Of course, Agatha, this is a colleague of mine; Henry Moore. Henry, this is my fiancé; Agatha Wellbelove.’

‚A pleasure.’ Henry says.

Agatha smoothly takes over the conversation like she's always been a part of it.

I get bored (I get that quickly) and with an excuse manage to get myself out of the crowd. 

I wander for a bit until I reach a more silent hallway. It’s cooler back here. The air almost feels like a wave as it breaks over my skin.

I feel like an oven, a radiator, a fire.

That’s when I hear it.

Soft notes floating through the hallway. A hesitant yet beautiful song, the complete opposite of the upbeat jazz that is being played just a couple of rooms over.

I follow the notes until I’m standing in the doorway of the conservatory.

Penny keeps a huge piano standing in the middle of the room. It’s mainly decorative, since none of the Bunce’s play.

But now it’s cranked open and underneath the moonlight that washes everything in pale blue, it lives.

A young man is sitting on the bench; his dark hair falling in front of his face as he bends over the keys and makes his long fingers dance.

I watch him play as minutes stretch for hours. See the muscles in his back stretch, the tendons in his hands move... He looks like a fucking piece of art and he doesn’t even consist of paint. Yet.

‚You know it’s rude to stare, right?’

I am shocked by his sudden voice. It’s deep, but not a basset. Just deep enough to feel it on your skin.

‚Yeah… I eh… I heard you play and sort of just…’ I trail off.

Great Degas, words. I hate them. Or they hate me. Either way, I’m no good. I’m way better with paints, colors, brushes. In my (slightly biased opinion) you can say way more with a painting than you can with a monologue.

The young man stands and walks over. He seems like a different person than just a few seconds ago.

‚You heard me play and sort of just… what?’ his tone is sharp and his eyes hesitant, reminding me of caged animals.

I notice that he is slightly taller than me. I already find that frustrating.

‚I heard you play and thought it was more beautiful than what they are playing in there.’ I jerk my head back at the party.

He almost seems to smile.

‚I’m Simon Snow.' and after a while I add: 'Salisbury.’

‚Ah.’ he says, I presume he has heard of me then. ‚Tyrannus Grimm-Pitch.’

We shake hands. His are surprisingly strong and very cold.

‚You’re the painter.’ he says and I nod.

‚And you, you are a pianist?’

‚It's mainly a hobby. I'm actually a researcher.’

I don’t know what to say to him and an awkward silence falls over us.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally stuffs his hands in his pockets and straightens.

‚Well, we better get going. There must be people that are missing our company.’

I doubt that. From the looks of it, Penny invited half of London.

He is almost out of the door, when I finally regain power over my body again and turn around.

‚Wait!’

He stops and turns too.

‚Please sit for me.’ I’ve blurted it out before I even realize what’s going on.  
‚Excuse me?’ he looks completely baffled. Or maybe he’s just appalled by the idea. I find it hard to read him.

‚Please,’ I repeat. ‚pose for me. Let me paint you.’

The confusion on his face slowly disappears, until there’s just reconsideration left until eventually,

‚Okay.’

It feels like I’m instantly a thousand pounds lighter.

‚Okay! Can you come by my studio tomorrow? Noon?’ But he is already shaking his head before I finish the sentence.

‚I’m sorry, but I have family-matters to attend to. How about this Saturday?’

I can only nod like an idiot. It doesn’t bother me.

Then he whips around and strides off and I’m left in the empty conservatory with a huge grin and a silent piano.


	2. The Sketch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of Penny's party last week, Baz promised to model for famous painter Simon Snow, and now it is time to make good on that promise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaaa! I never ment to add a second chapter this late! At first my excuse was gonna be that I was really passionate about getting all the historical details right but I guess I just lost interest over the summer... But now! I am back! And there is a second chapter thanks to all the very sweet people out there who liked the concept. You rule :)  
> Okay yeah that's it enjoy the story bye!

#### Baz 

The weather has cleared up since the party last week. The sun is peeking out from behind some thin clouds and the streets are no longer slippery from constant rain.

_I can’t believe I’m actually doing this._

There are more people, too; men and women going out for a stroll, cars rushing past and children laughing. It looks strange, out of place. These happy figures maneuvering themselves a way through life and the wreckage the war left just a couple of years ago.

_I should just go back home._

I flex my fingers. They’re cold. I feel cold. I’m always cold these days.

Simon Snow can go die in a ditch, the prat.

I don’t care how „bold” or „intimate” his work is or how many girls would die to sit for him.

What made him think asking something like that out of the blue is humanly acceptable?

Still, if I remember his curls, the way his eyes shone brightly in the half-dark… He just looked so alive, something which I haven't felt in a while.

Mother would be proud that I am trying to actually make something of this life so there’s no way that I’ll back out of this one. And besides, I’m already standing in front of the building where Snow lives and works.

It’s three stories high with tall windows and by the looks of it it dates back to the early colonial times; completely decked out with pillars, arches and a cornice. The buildings on both sides are missing, the only reminder that they actually existed are the craters and a single flight of stairs that is still attached to the side of Snow’s building.

I knock and wait for the door to open. I have to wait a long time. Does Snow not have servants? He should have enough money…

__

But then the door flies open and I forget all my irritations.

__

In the doorframe stands Simon Snow and the afternoon-sun sets him on fire. And with him, I go up in flames. 

__

His skin is a tanned gold with moles and freckles scattered across. The curls that I presumed were a dirty blond last week, are actually bronze.

__

They look really soft.

__

‚Tyrannus!’ he says, like we’re friends. We’re not friends. Are we?

'Please, just call me Baz.' I say softly. 

I’m struck by how blue his eyes are. He seems to have captured the Egyptian summer sky in his irises.

_Great, now I'm homesick..._

‚So glad you came!’ I wonder why all his sentences seem to end with an exclamation point. ‚Please, do come in!’

__

He steps aside and realizing I should probably say something else, I only manage a meager ‚Hello Snow.’.

I curse myself in silence. This is not how I played this out in my head.

‚Do you want something to drink? I have tea… somewhere… I think?’ he doesn’t wait for my answer, just runs on ahead to what I presume is the kitchen, putting on a kettle as I wander after him.

__

The kitchen is messy, but it's a lived in kind of messy. And it's clean even though there are some dirty dishes in the sink and there is a still unsolved sudoku lain out on the table. Behind a pile of old newspapers and an empty cookie-jar I spot a tin can with "TEA" printed on it. I hand it to Snow, who takes it with a sheepish grin.

__

I watch him dump two bags in mugs and pour the boiling water. It looks like a dance. My family doesn’t make their own tea. I didn’t know it looked so graceful.

__

Maybe it’s just because Simon Snow is making it.

__

Snow takes a sip, makes a face and then proceeds to dump a shit-ton of sugar in both of the mugs.

__

Revolting.

__

‚My studio is upstairs.’ he says over his shoulder

__

‚Alright.’ I should say something else. ‚What is it you need me for, specifically?’

__

Snow shrugs. ‚Just some model sketches. We'll see!’

__

I wonder if someone has ever tried to strangle him because otherwise I’ll be the first. How can someone be so unorganized? He has had an entire week to prepare and still doesn’t have anything yet.

__

‚Come on, lets get started!’ Maybe it's rude, but I leave my still steaming mug of sugar-and-tea on the countertop.

We go all the way up to the attic, which is a huge open room stretching the entirety of the house with a surprisingly high ceiling and skylights which let in the last beams of sunlight, showing every single piece of dust in the world floating in the still air. Pushed to the side are some pieces of furniture covered with cloth protecting them against the dust.

__

In the middle of the room stands a lonely easel surrounded by tubes of paint, papers and pots with brushes and pigments.

__

Snow rummages through a pile of notepads and pencils while he commands me around the room.

'Yes, you can take of your coat. No don't stand, sit! Take that chair. Wait, no, stand again? No, sitting is better. If you could... just... move your leg? Like that? Yes! Now hold still.'

Snow starts sketching furiously. Between the scratching of his pencil and flipping of the pages I am surprised he has any time to breathe at all.

I don't know how long goes by, because I get lost in the hypnotic trance that is Simon Snow Salisbury, but suddenly he looks up and his Egyptian-sky-blue eyes clash with my own.

And he just. Keeps. Drawing.

For the entire duration of whatever it is we're doing, he just looks at me, like I'm worth looking at. Worth being seen.

I only realize it has been getting dark outside when a soft knock comes from the attic door and a small, mousey girl sticks her head inside.

'Mister Salisbury?' she says with a thick accent. 'I am here to inform you that master Salisbury has returned as well as mistress Wellbelove and they'd like to have dinner now, sir.'

Her grey-ish eyes dart to me for a second before skimming back to the floor.

Snow laughs, if not slightly surprised. 'Anna! Dear lord, I completely lost track of time again, didn't I? Forgive me, Baz, but I guess that this will be it for today!'

_Today?!_

I manage a smile back, biting my teeth to hide the grunt as I get up.

'I'll walk you out.' Snow offers, but I raise a hand in what I hope is a polite decline.

'I am sure... uhm... Anna could bring me, you shouldn't make your family wait.'

'Alright. See you next week again?' not waiting for an answer (maybe he knows I'd say "no") (would I say "no"?), he smiles one last time, tucks his sketchpad underneath his arm and ducks out of the room and after a couple of very awkward, very silent minutes, Anna shows me out as well.

The night-air is cool on my face and, turning up the collar of my coat, I start of in the general direction of my house.


	3. The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon has been slacking off of his social tasks, so his Father sets him up with a challenge. Is he up for it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps how wonderful that you are back or just joining for more 20s fluff! I'm sorry that I took so long but here is chapter three. I can almost promise that chapter 4 will be out sooner because I have been thinking about it since the first chapter.  
> All of y'all have a great morning/day/evening/night!

##### Simon

I’m working in my studio, putting some finishing touches on a large requested painting, when Anna pokes her head inside.

‚Forgive me sir,’ she says, in her usual soft tone ‚But your father has requested to see you. Shall I sent him up?’

I nod without looking up from the painting I’m working on.

Father will probably be annoyed about not being welcomed properly, but, honestly, I couldn’t care less. Social norms and rules are tiring at best and I don’t have the time to drink tea and chit-chat about the weather and technological advances.

Anna’s light footsteps disappear down the stairs to return a couple of minutes later, now accompanied with my father’s heavy ones.

It’s only when his deep voice rasps out my name that I look up.

Father worked himself up from factory-worker to factory-owner and carries his feeble social status in his straight shoulders, cold stare and unkept fingernails. But not even the deep lines that draw his face or the fact that he now permanently walks with a cane take away from his clear dominance in almost every room he enters.

You don’t have to be a genius to see that he isn’t my biological father. He adopted me from a nameless orphanage when I was around eleven. Just wandered in one day with grief etched in his sharp blue eyes and asked to see all the eleven year-old boys.

Lucky me I was the only one that fit the category.

The next three years he mostly left me to my own devices in his huge mansion. I absolutely hated it and spent the first months strategically destroying everything I came in contact with.

It wasn’t until I found a mostly empty sketchpad and some other drawing equipment in the library that I discovered my talent for drawing and because I then had something that made me interesting, Father finally started spending time with me.

Now he finances my work and living, while visiting every once in a while to discuss my latest paintings or to have dinner.

Father sweeps his eyes over me and the painting, making a disapproving sound, I choose to ignore it, because it is rare when Father agrees with my paintings. He finds the models, poses and colors too „risqué” and „modern”. I believe he’d prefer to see everything in the same way they were in victorian times.

‚Thank you, Anna. Could you please bring up some tea later?’ I say, smiling. She nods and leaves with a small bow.

Father finds a seat on the wooden chair across from me and my thoughts flash back to high cheekbones, slate grey eyes and hair so dark I could barely get the shade right with a 9B pencil. The illusion fades when Father starts speaking again.

‚Honestly, Simon, I expect better from you.’

I am confused, not knowing in what I have disappointed him in this time, but I don’t have to ask him because he continues on his own.

‚You were absent at the fundraiser I threw last week. In your honor.’

‚Ah… The fundraiser… Which was Saturday… What day is it today?’

Father sighs in a way I find way too dramatic, even for the situation.

‚I spend almost the entire night conversing with Sir John Baddeley, trying to explain to him why my adoptive son was absent from the party for him!’

‚Father I am sorry, I was absorbed in this painting,’ I gesture in the general direction of the canvas on my easel. ‚and I completely lost track of time, of the days even!’

Father looks pointedly at the painting. It shows two adolescent girls curling around each other like young cats on a sofa. They look like moonlight and slightly mystical in their semi-sheer dresses and the cold tones I used for everything except their eyes, which are black black black and glued on the observer.

‚It is still unacceptable, Simon.’ he hisses and looks about to explode on me when the door opens and Anna comes in with the tea.

We’re completely silent as she pours and hands us our cups with hands steadier than my heartbeat.

After she has backed out of the room and pulled the door shut behind her, Father seems to have calmed down maybe just a little as he blows steam of his tea.

‚So, I’ll give you two options. One; you come back to live with me where I can keep an eye on you until you are married and then Agatha can watch over you.’

I sputter a protest but either he doesn’t hear me or chooses not to because he just talks over me.

‚Or, option two, you have an exposition ready. In six months. And no old work, all of it has to be new!’

My jaw drops. That is impossible! I’d need a year, maybe nine months, but six?!

I am about to tell him so when my mind races back to Baz. I remember thinking that, as he sat down in the chair Father is now sitting on, he was enough inspiration for a lifetime.

Maybe… maybe there was a slight, a minimalistic chance that I could pull of the deadline.

‚Do we have a deal then?’ he asks, settling his tiny porcelain cup back on its saucer and I nod. ‚Alright. Then I will see you again next week for dinner. Please don’t forget the time again, Simon. I’ll have Anna show me out.’

And with those words, I am left alone and the front-door hasn’t even closed behind him or I’m tearing through my sketchpads like a madman; I have an idea.


	4. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz revisits his traumatic time serving during the First World War...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps! Told ya this chapter would take less time!  
> Also, I might have taken some artistic liberty towards Baz' relationship with Dev...  
> This chapter is kind of violent though and I'm gonna give y'all a trigger-warning(?) for panic-attacks. Furthermore; you don’t have to read it to understand the rest of the story but it does explain Baz’ PTSD a bit more in depth (where it came from etc.) but if you don’t want to read about all the death and destruction in the trenches in Belgium, First World War, just skip to the next chapter :)

##### Baz

_The dirt behind my back is cold, the stars overhead clear points of white light and if you only focus on those two things the rapid gunfire and the explosions almost dull down to an actual enjoyable song (I’m disturbed. Ask anyone), I just can’t work out where the screams of agony would fit into this piece._

__

_My left leg throbs painfully underneath the trinket that is secured around my thigh. I’ve been shot somewhere in the past twelve hours, though with all the adrenaline rushing through my system I hadn’t noticed until Dev had pointed it out._

__

_I now feel his body-heat radiating off him, his shoulder pressed into my own, hand on my elbow, keeping me down as we both listen expectantly to explosions._

__

_I glance sideways at Dev’s profile. Eyes gleaming, mouth slightly ajar, chest rising and falling as he breathes heavily. Since we were deployed Dev had looked more like himself than I had ever seen him back home._

__

_He has grown out his hair, just slightly, so now it falls in front of one side of his face, brown eyes, long nose. The tan uniform complements his warm skin tone, so unlike my own, and even though being underground for so long has made his skin slightly lighter, he still looks as exotic and intriguing as when I met him first._

__

_Dev doesn’t think in political games, he doesn’t believe in grey areas, just black-and-white. When someone tells him something is bad, he avoids it, when he’s told to shoot, he does. Sometimes when I look at him I feel like he will be the sole survivor in this war, like he’ll just stand in the eye of the storm as both sides effectively destroy each other._

__

_He catches me looking and smiles, a glint of light catches on his teeth. I feel the muscles in his hand clench around my arm as he leans over and his breath ghost over my ear as he starts to say something but before he can actually probably make a witty comment about our less than ideal situation, when a bullet hits the opposite side of the trench and we’re showered in dirt._

__

_More follow; quick salvos. One after the other. We shield ourselves with our arms. I hide my face in Dev’s neck. He smells like the trenches (dirt, stale water, wool and blood) but also still like Dev; like fire and pine-forests._

__

_I smile, because even though most of the time I’m scared shitless in here, it’s okay, because it’s Dev and it’s me and we’ve gotten through things that were maybe not_ as _bad, but surely_ kind of bad _, and I know we’ll be alright. We’ll make it out of this hellhole._

__

_Together._

__

_And when we do, I’ll tell him._

__

_Maybe._

__

_And then we can go back to pretending that the world didn’t exist outside my family’s estate. It was so nice back then. So warm._

__

_Suddenly my ears fill with an explosion followed by screams, much closer than the other ones._

__

_We look up to see dust and smoke is piling up in the trench, rolling around the corner. There is a man running towards us. He’s supporting another guy and there is blood everywhere. The second guy’s head is lolling from side to side and as we get closer I can see he’s missing half of it…_

__

_There is a gaping tear starting on his left temple running down across his nose and over his teeth._

__

_You can see straight into his mouth._

__

_The first guy is not much better off. His right arm has been torn straight out of the socket, dangling only by a few tendons and muscles._

__

_Their uniforms are no longer beige but fresh red red red._

__

_We know before the first guy says it._

__

_Grenades._

__

_They are throwing grenades._

__

_Dev and I scramble to our feet. I hoist the first man over my shoulder, Dev takes the second and we start towards the next safe place. A room with a heavy door dug into the side of the next trench. I don’t try to sprint, not with my leg in it’s current condition, but instead settle for a steady pace that we’ve been trained to keep up for hours if necessary._

__

_I don’t notice that Dev is falling behind until he cries out my name._

__

_‚Baz!’_

__

_Turning I see that the soldier on his back has more consciousness than we realized and is struggling, squirming. Dev is having trouble keeping a hold on him as well as running towards safety._

__

_I look ahead again, there are only a couple of meters to the safe place. If we just manage to get around this next corner._

__

_With my eyes I plead for him to go on._

__

__

_We’re almost there!_ I wanna say. _Keep going!_

__

_And he nods, and he does. So I start going again as well. I reach the door first, dump the guy in front of it as I slam my fist against it several times, then turn back to go and help Dev._

__

_I turn around, lock eyes with Dev, and the the world explodes…_

__

_If I later recall the events, it’s in slow-motion. I see a black dot, a grenade, sail into the trench with a certain graciousness that only bringers of death seem to poses, I catch an animalistic glint of fear in Dev’s eyes, the beads of sweat on his brow gleam in the light of the stars and the lanterns. The grenade lands, seems to wait a second, then explodes into a deadly flower of fire and force and fright._

__

_Within seconds Dev and the faceless man are consumed, he doesn’t even have time to scream. I am thrown backwards. Land with my back against a large wooden crate._

__

_My ears are ringing, my vision swims. All the wind has been knocked out of me and I try desperately to get some air back in my lungs._

__

_After a second, they succeed, but after another one, my body decides that being shot, and almost blown up, and just because it simply doesn’t want to deal with all the emotional strain it already knows it will have to process, and I let the darkness overtake me..._

__

I wake with a start. I’m breathing hard, feel like I’m about to collapse upon myself.

Would that be possible? Would I turn into negative space? Dear God, I hope I would…

I stare up at the roof of my four-poster bed, there is no difference between the fabric and the ceiling beyond it in this deep, suffocating darkness.

It’s everywhere. That darkness. In my eyes, lungs, mouth and veins. I feel like I’m drowning in darkness.

Gasping I turn to my side. There is a nightstand there. A nightstand with a light.

If I can just… find… the switch!

I fumble, I can’t feel my hands, something falls to the ground, shatters. My heart is racing in my throat, my head is spinning.

Tears are already threatening to spill, hot and heavy, when my hand finally closes around the cool switch.

Finally.

The warm electronic light spills out, creating a circle of light, of safe.

Deep breaths… I try to tell myself. Deep breaths…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> I hoped that the ones that chose to read this chapter thought it was... uhm... idk, I can't say fun, but like whatever.  
> If you have any points on the First World War, PTSD or panic-attacks, please let me know. I tried to research it as much as I could, but if you think I messed up anywhere, feel free to tell me so I can change it for the better :)


End file.
